by Edwin Arlington Robinson Here was a place where none would ever come For shelter, save as we did from the rain. We saw no ghost, yet once outside again Each wondered why the other should be so dumb; And ruin, and to our vision it was plain Where thrift, outshivering fear, had let remain Some chairs that were like skeletons of home. There were no trackless footsteps on the floor Above us, and there were no sounds elsewhere. But there was more than sound; and there was more Than just an axe that once was in the air Between us and the chimney, long before Our time. So townsmen said who found her there.